Zophar’s Leftover, Layover, Hangover
Zophar Shankelstein slumped into the cracked vinyl seat of Gate 17B at O’Hare International Airport, his head throbbing like a giant squid crushing the moon, he was in the middle of a hangover-fueled misadventure. The fake neon glow of a pretzel stand flickered in his peripheral vision, mocking and challenging his queasy stomach. It was April 10, 2025, and Zophar was halfway through the worst layover of his life—a seven-hour stopover that felt like a cruel cosmic prank.
It had all started the night before in Denver. Zophar, one of the true originals, a warning sign for others, he was a 32-year-old with a penchant for thrift and chaos, had raided his fridge for leftovers before his red-eye flight. He’d thrown together a Frankenstein’s monster of a meal: half a soggy burrito, some questionable pad thai, and a large portion of his vintaloo mystery curry that already smelled like regret. “Waste not, want not,” he’d muttered, washing it down with half a bottle of mezcal he’d found behind the couch. Big mistake. The mezcal hit like a freight train, the room divided in two like an unaligned Viewmaster image—it felt like a switch had been thrown, and he could not set it right.
The cab ride was a blur. Zophar stumbled into the backseat, slurring his destination—“O’Here, no, wait, Denver airport, odds bodkins! You know what I mean”—to a driver named Raj, whose patience was already thinning. The mezcal sloshed in Zophar’s stomach as the cab lurched forward, and he started to feel the world tilt. “Turn up the jams, man!” he yelled, banging the seat. Raj obliged with some up tempo and hauntingly distorted Bollywood beats, and Zophar, half-delirious, belted out gibberish lyrics in made of up indian dialects, arms flailing like a deranged conductor. Raj screamed, “Bas—fie upon your jabber, Chip Karo, man!” Chip Karo!
Then hes started to dig for the leftovers. He fished the curry Tupperware from his backpack, popped the lid, and the cab filled with a stench Raj later called “a war crime.” “You eat that?” Raj barked, making my eyes water!, he cracked the windows as Zophar shoveled a spoonful in, grinning, “Fuel for the flight, baby!”—until a sharp turn sent an overloaded spoonful of curry splattering against the the window.
Raj slammed the brakes. Zophar flew forward crashing against the seat in front of him, cackling wildly, “To the moon, baby!” He packed away what was left of the mad bastard vindaloo he’d brought for the flight. The cab screeched to the terminal with Zophar adding a drunkenly inspired generous tip on the app , He stumbled back, thinking of himself as a international playboy, and with jazz hands pointed at Raj, “Keep the change, legend!” before staggering to his gate. Time then started to pass in disconnected paragraphs of reality.
Somehow, he found himself stumbling down the right gateway. By the time he boarded his 2 a.m. flight, he was a walking disaster, but still holding it together enough as to not draw anymore attention than was normal for Zophar.
The plane touched down in Chicago at 5 a.m., and Zophar’s hangover announced itself with the authority of a hard gut punch. His mouth was coated in the sour ash of a witch’s pyre. Each breath tasted like stagnant outhouse, his skull contained a legion hall of blacksmiths ceaselessly hammering on bells tolling the death of his wits. He had seven hours to kill—or rather, the 7 hours had him, the universe wanted revenge for crimes against nature —
He was a lost soul wandering in the Cursed, sprawling, soulless O’Hare international airport., It was his purgatory.
Nearby, A toddler screamed out, a new lifes declaration of existence, overhead, a gate agent barked unintelligible announcements,
broadcast into painful noise art, all around him the air smelled like burnt coffee, industrial cleaner, despair.
Zophar’s first destination required a desperate shuffle to the 24 hour “Runway Tavern,” lured by the promise of his favorite lady of the morning. She was the only chance at making things, and if not right, at least pointed in the right direction. He ordered a Bloody Mary, figuring the tomato juice might count as hydration, health food, or the nod to the virgin mother, might at least count as a step towards salvation.
It didn’t. The bartender, a grizzled guy named Chuck with a nametag reading “Ale Capone,” slid the glass over with a smirk. “Rough night, huh?” Zophar grunted, downing a third of the drink in one go. He made another desparate sound and chugged another third of the redemption before him, “You have no idea, Chuck, then an odd look of terror came over him, "oh god, oh no. he said” The spice had hit his stomach and unleased a geyser of lava tearing through his core, he lurched toward the restroom, clutching his gut.
He ran, each foot seeming to fall before the last, a desperately fight, against holes in gravity, to make his way to the unfortunate and doomed toilet. Inside the fluorescent-lit hellscape of the men’s room,
Zophar’s condition went from bad to apocalyptic. He stumbled into a stall, dropped to his knees, and unleashed a torrent of regret into the toilet—mezcal, curry, and all the other poisons he had ingested the night before. The room spun violently, and as he gripped the porcelain, a wave of nausea so intense hit him that reality itself seemed to fracture. His vision blurred, the flickering lights above morphing into a pulsing green glow. A delirious realization provided a short respite, a realization that he wasn’t in O’Hare airport anymore. Cold, metallic walls closed in, and a high-pitched whine pierced his ears. “Bastards, bastards,” he rasped, “I’ve damn been abducted again.”
In his hangover-addled mind, Zophar pictured gray-skinned aliens hovering over him, their spindly fingers probing his stomach. “They’re extracting the pad thai,” he muttered, convinced the toilet was a portal to their ship. Not gonna break my leg this time, grey freaks. He held the rim, preventing abduction through the drain, he was just able to push himself off, falling into the safety of the floor and wall.
An alarmed and frightened fellow traveler clattered outside the stall, snapping him back—sort of. He staggered out to the sink, splashing water on his face, the wall, and the floor behind him, still trembling from the “abduction.” “Never drinking again,” he swore to his wild-eyed reflection, though the aliens in his head disagreed, and his relfection admitted it was true.
Back at the gate, he tried to salvage the situation with the leftovers he’d packed— the Tupperware of that cursed curry, now warm and pungent from hours in his backpack. He popped the lid, and the smell wafted out like a biohazard, earning glares from a casually dressed man and from a smartly clad woman clutching a purple and yellow yoga mat. “Dude, seriously?” the businessman snapped, scooting away. Zophar shoveled a spoonful into his mouth anyway, hoping it’d settle his stomach. It didn’t. The pad thai noodles resurfaced in his throat—alien flashbacks swirling—and he bolted for a trash can, barely making it.
By hour three of his O’Hare purgatory LAYOVER, Zophar’s body was a potent warning to others, but his spirit—stubborn, reckless, and faintly unhinged—refused to surrender. He’d slumped back into the cracked vinyl seat, after the recent chaos, his hoodie damp with sweat and sink water, when a flicker of defiance sparked in his bleary eyes. “I’m not licked yet,” he muttered, Determined to ride out the storm, Zophar lurched to his feet and staggered toward a vending machine he’d spotted earlier, its glowing promise of ginger ale calling like the sisters of mercy welcoming him in to comfort and care.
He fumbled his card, feeding, sliding and madly tapping against the machine until it granted his wish, soon it whirred and clanked. The can dropped with the satisfying thud of victory!—as he cracked it open, the carbonation exploded in a geyser, soaking his shirt and his face, alien assholes he murmured, Zophar slunk back to his seat, the poisons in his belly and blood still boiling with anger.
A kid nearby pointed and whispered to his mom, “Is that man okay?” The mom didn’t answer, she just pulled her son closer and edged him away from the roaming biohazzard.
In his haze, Zophar’s mind drifted back to the aliens. “They’d love this,” he mumbled, imagining them dissecting him and marveling at his unholy resilience. “Earth’s secret weapon, grey freaks. Try probing that.” I'm damn superman,
By the end of hour three, he was sprawled across two seats, one hand clutching a second can of ginger ale, the other resting on his stained clothing, the smell of curry, puke and worse things warning others to stay away.
By hour four, Zophar was a shell of a man, sprawled across three seats with his hoodie pulled over his face. He’d given up on dignity not that it was something he could depend upon, and was muttering about extraterrestrial digestive experiments when fate dealt its final blow: a gate change. His flight to New York was now departing from Terminal 5, a 20-minute trek away.
He staggered through the airport, dragging his carry-on a like a injured soldier might drag another from certain death , his hangover pulsing with every step. Another oasis of hope appeared, this time a water fountain. It did little to help—his hands shook too much to fill his bottle, and he ended up sloshing water nearly everywhere but the bottle, finally, after soaking himself and the area, he collecting enough life-giving fluid to continue on. he took a drink, it was good, he took another and felt the earth turn.
By the time Zophar reached the gate for his connecting flight to New York—now relocated to the hinterlands of Terminal 5—he was a walking catastrophe. Hour seven of his O’Hare ordeal had whittled him down to a shambling and disembodied husk: his hoodie was soaked with bad memories and sweat, his jeans bore mysterious stains like battle scars, and his wiry frame swayed out of sync like pine trees in a storm.
The gate agent—a women named Marla wore a crisp and fitted navy blazer— she stood like authority itself at the podium, scanning boarding passes with mechanical precision. Zophar staggered up, dragging his carry-on behind him like a hunter drags a fresh kill out of the woods, He thrust his crumpled boarding pass forward. “To the moon, ladies!” he croaked to the single gate attendant, his voice a gravelly mix of exhaustion and defiance, hands twiching as a if he hand intended to shake them around.
The attendant with the Severe hair Bun, “Marla”—peered at the pass, then at Zophar, her eyes narrowing as she examined his disheveled state. “Sir, are you… fit to fly?” she asked, her tone clipped and skeptical, like a cop sizing up a drunk.
Zophar grinned, a wild, toothy thing that didn’t reach his bloodshot eyes. “Fit? I’m a majestic and mighty phoenix, Marla. Risen from the ashes of a seven-hour layover. You ever fought aliens in a bathroom stall? I have. I’m more than fit.” He swayed slightly, clutching the podium for balance, and a faint whiff of sick, hit the air.
Marla wasn’t convinced. She tapped her pen against the podium, eyeing the disturbing stains on his shirt. “Sir, we can’t let you board if you’re intoxicated or a risk to other passengers. You look… unwell.”
Zophar starred at her with a dead look in his eyes, was it a jedi mind trick, or was he just at the end, the edge of reailty itself, perhaps she was just tired and frustrated and sick of her job? No one knows. Then, she said in
“Look, we’re overbooked anyway. Can you at least sit quietly and not… disturb anyone?”
“Quiet as pancakes, still like holy water” Zophar vowed, crossing his heart with a shaky hand. “I just want my seat, lady. I’ve earned it. The grey freaks didn’t break me, and neither will O’Hare international Purgatory.”
“Fine,” Marla said, scanning his pass with a laugh. “But if you cause a scene, you’ll be in jail, federal jail."
Zophar saluted, a sloppy, triumphant gesture, and shuffled toward the jetway, muttering, “To the moon, baby. To the fucking moon.” She watched him go, already reaching for the intercom to warn the crew.
When he finally boarded the plane, Zophar looked like he’d aged a decade. The attendant eyed him warily as he collapsed into his seat, still reeking faintly of curry and ruin. “Never again,” he croaked, though he knew it was a lie.
As the plane rumbled down the runway, Zophar’s mind drifted to home. He pictured his grimy Denver apartment, the fridge still holding more remnants of those burritos, pad thai, and curry. A faint smirk crossed his cracked lips.
I think I’m going to live, he thought. He was still a member of the animated dead, but he could see light at the end of the tunnel—was it redemption or death?, either way, he couldn’t help but feel some liberation from the terror.
I am invincible, I survived . I can’t believe it, I’m alive. I must’ve built up enough antibodies by now. I’m probably immune to food poisoning for the rest of my life. You know what?
When I get back, I’m polishing off the rest of that pad thai, those burritos and the curry. Waste not, want not. I’m going to the moon world, right to the big beautiful moon—none of you bastards can stop me.
Zophar Shankelstein was a man of habits—bad ones—and somewhere in his future, another leftover-stuffed, hangover-riddled, alien-haunted stopover was waiting.
For now, he closed his eyes. His head felt like the bulb of a large ship cutting through the massive waves of the North Atlantic, his mind rang like a struck and hollow bowl, and with absolute exhaustion, he collapsed, praying for the sweet mercy of turbulence-free sleep.